How Certain the Journey
by jeremystollemyheart
Summary: They had, all three of them, been coming together as if by gravitational pull. And just like with gravity, it didn't wait to be understood in order to be real. Post-canon. Erik/Raoul/Christine. Cross-posted to AO3 and Tumblr.


**I don't have an excuse for this, except that sometimes you have to be the change you want to see in the world, even if the change is 1K of Erik/Raoul/Christine fluff.**

"I think," Christine began after staying silent for far longer than he would have liked, "you have trouble recognizing the difference between love and hatred."

Christine had a very intuitive way of pinpointing Erik's problem areas, and a charming way of implying that he had a finite number of them.

"Excuse me?"

"I think—" she began again.

"No, I heard you," he fidgeted in his seat, feeling suddenly exposed. "Would you care to elaborate?"

He knew that sometimes he still sounded too much like a demanding teacher, sharp-voiced and exacting. But if Christine noticed, she didn't say anything.

"Well," he could tell she was choosing her words carefully, "It seems to me that you decided a long time ago that you understood hatred, without ever really recognizing love."

Erik's eyes slipped closed for a moment as he willed himself to maintain composure. He would not respond defensively. He would not stand up and walk out. Not when they had all been trying so hard, fighting an uphill battle to understand each other.

This thought stopped him in his tracks. All? When had they become an "all?" When had he started to include Raoul in these attempts to find common ground? The idea startled him. He tried to keep the shock from shining out from behind his mask.

Certainly, Raoul had been patient enough when Christine made the decision to allow Erik back into her life. He had been encouraging. He had been understanding, even when he didn't _understand_. For all of that, Erik was grateful in his own way. But he couldn't recall the moment when he had first labeled Raoul as an active participant in this arrangement.

"Recognizing love," he repeated, half a question and half a distracted echo. He looked away from Christine and down at his hands.

He wanted to tell her that he knew the difference between hatred and love. Hatred had always felt like cruelty and pain, and love had always felt like—well. It had always felt like _her_.

He wanted to say all of that, but he was still stuck on the troubling way that a new person— _that_ new person—had crept into his life. When had they become a trio?

Christine continued, "I think you should know: Raoul doesn't hate you."

"Raoul?" He almost choked on the name, and wondered if she had somehow read his mind.

"I mean. I think maybe he wanted to at first. I think he tried. But Raoul can't really _hate_ anyone. And recently, having you around—well…" she went silent, glancing around as if she could pluck her next words from thin air. When she finally found what she was looking for she swallowed hard and continued, "I recognize the way he's come to look at you, Erik. I recognize it because...because it's the same way he looks at me."

At first he thought the statement was some sort of accusation. He leaned forward, his hands an anxious flurry of motion as he attempted an apology for—for what? For Raoul's feelings?

Or for the moment where he might have reciprocated them?

Before he could sputter out a panicked, denial-laced apology, Christine leaned forward herself and grabbed his fluttering hands, stilling them and soothing them.

"Erik! I'm sorry if I upset you. Maybe I shouldn't have even brought it up. We just wanted you to know that—I care deeply about you, and Raoul does too."

His eyes widened. This was not an accusation, it was a confession. A confession of something that, he realized with the feeling of a bomb going off, had been there, just below the surface. Just as Christine said, he hadn't recognized it. But that didn't mean it hadn't been happening all along. It didn't mean he hadn't _felt_ it, even before he _knew_ it.

They had, all three of them, been coming together as if by gravitational pull. And just like with gravity, it didn't wait to be understood in order to be real.

You don't have to feel the same way, but—"

"But," Erik continued, choosing his words haltingly, still feeling dizzy, almost giddy from the realization, "I think...perhaps...I do."

Christine's hands tightened around his, and she looked up at him, her face a picture of delighted surprise, which quickly sobered.

"Really? You don't have to—I mean. You don't have to know right now. And you don't have to say it just because I—because we did."

"I-I know," Erik stammered after a moment, which came as a surprise even to himself. He had come to recognize a habit of leaping headlong into declarations of affection, without taking the time to understand his true feelings. But this didn't feel like a headlong leap. If anything, he had dug his heels in at the prospect of caring for Raoul.

Before anyone could continue, the door burst open like a dam breaking, and Raoul tumbled in, blushing and looking a little ashamed.

"The—" he ran a hand through his sandy hair and gave a sheepish laugh, "The door isn't as strong as it looks."

"You've been eavesdropping!" Christine accused, swatting at him as he approached.

Erik stared at Raoul as he babbled excuses for his crime. He was not quite tall, with a slender build and sun-streaked hair. He was charming and awkward and handsome in an easy way that Erik had once believed himself to be jealous of.

"It's alright," he said, saving the young man from Christine's lecture. And then, shakily, his mouth dry, he added, "Raoul?" It came out as a hopeful question.

"Yes?" Raoul stepped towards him, looking equally hopeful.

"It may not be easy," he warned.

"Does that mean we shouldn't try?"

Erik considered this.

"It means it will take work," Christine said, "but it always does. And we've got each other."

Erik realized that they did. "Alright," he said at last, and invited them into his arms with a gesture. Christine rushed to his side. Raoul approached more carefully, as though afraid of startling him.

But it was Raoul who asked, "May I?" And it was Raoul's hands (gentle, but surprisingly rough), that untied the strings of his mask and put it aside when Erik acquiesced.

His face exposed, he cringed out of instinct. But Raoul and Christine were still there, all tender hands and gentle words, and then, at last, loving kisses. Christine's lips were soft, and her kiss was gentle and familiar. It felt like home. Raoul's lips were warm and just slightly chapped, and his kiss was careful but electrified. It felt like the future.

And suddenly Erik wondered how there had ever need anything but the three of them, hoping, trying, climbing uphill, and together.


End file.
